faulty heart
by lauraxtennant
Summary: Set the night after the end of s2ep3's courtroom shenanigans. Ellie visits Hardy's house.


The soft knocking on the glass jerks him awake. Sitting up on the sofa, he rubs at his eye, and squints towards the door.

Twice in one week.

He heaves himself up with effort and opens the door. "Miller," he greets, then sniffs, his eyes shifting away from her awkwardly. The other night,when she had come to his house - well, ramshackle hut was more like it - it had been to give him some good news. Now, it's tremendously apparent from the expression on her face that he's going to have to invite her in and talk over the _bad_ news they had received in court today.

When his gaze meets hers finally, because she isn't bloody saying anything and he has to look at her, he sighs.

"You shouldn't really be here," he says, mumbling the words gruffly even as he opens the door wider, stepping aside to invite her in.

"I know," she mumbles right back, tugging on the ends of her jacket sleeves, pulling them down over her hands. "Didn't know what else to do, really. Can't believe what happened."

He closes the door behind her and gestures to the sofa. Sitting down beside one another, they lapse into silence for a few moments.

"I mean, what the fuck?" she says suddenly, turning her body towards him.

Lifting his eyebrows, he nods. "Yeah."

"Why would they think that? How can that possibly be used against us, against me, when it isn't even true?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," he replies carefully, with a small shrug. "They'll do anything right now to tarnish our testimonies. Bloody prosecution isn't doing a lot to counter it, I might add."

Miller tilts her head in agreement. "Yeah. Thought that Jocelyn was supposed to be the best or something?"

He shrugs again, watching her as she shifts in her seat, the rustle of her jacket, that bloody orange jacket, grating on his nerves. "Miller, are you staying long?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she retorts with a sharp tongue, "Am I keeping you from something?"

Rolling his eyes, he reaches out and tugs on her sleeve. "No, I just meant that if you're staying, you might as well take off your coat."

She eyes him suspiciously for a moment, then does as he suggests.

"Can you make us a cuppa or do I have to go rooting in your cupboards myself?" she says next.

The corner of his mouth twitches, just a little. "No, I'll do it. Tea?"

"Please."

When he comes back into the room with two mugs and a hastily opened packet of custard creams, Miller snorts.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"If they get wind that you've been here tonight, it's only gonna fuel the fire, you know."

She takes a bite into a biscuit, then shoves it all in, speaking as she chews, "Well, it's bullshit. Anyone with two eyes will see that, surely."

"I'll try not to be offended," he blurts out, quickly hiding his face behind his mug as he takes a long sip.

"No, but come on." She jostles him with her elbow, and even chuckles. "As if!"

He places his mug on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary, and a bit of his tea spills over and onto a letter from the hospital, staining over dreadful words like _appointments_ and _procedure_. He leaves it be.

Scratching at his beard for a second, he leans against the back of the sofa. It suddenly occurs to him that he's only in a thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He feels practically naked, and it unnerves him.

"Miller, you're going to drop that biscuit in your tea if you're not careful - ah, there we go."

She curses under her breath as she loses the custard cream into the depths of her mug, having dipped it for too long.

His lips twitch again, and he draws his hand along his face, halting the movement. Or hiding it. He's not sure which anymore.

"What do you think will happen?" she asks next, her voice quiet and sombre again.

"I dunno," he says honestly. She's leaning forward, her arms folded on her knees now that she's abandoned her mug of tea. He feels compelled to reach out, to put his hand on her shoulder, her back, maybe. He doesn't, because he doubts it'd be welcome, and anyway, it's ridiculous to even want to. Instead, he stretches his arm along the back of the sofa.

She turns to him again, then. "Do you think Joe believes them? I know they're only saying it to let him off the hook, but do you think he actually believes them, about this?"

Something cold makes its way down his spine and settles in his stomach.

Because he doesn't respond, Miller prompts, "Hardy?"

"I don't know," he finally murmurs, and the answer is reluctantly given. He's saying a lot of _I don't knows_ lately, to her, to himself, and it's driving him bonkers.

She fiddles with her jacket, which lies between them. "Maybe I should go."

"No," he says, before he can stop himself. "No, don't. I mean, if you want to, sure, but - sorry. I'm just tired."

The look she gives him then is assessing, but he almost convinces himself it's concern. "Are you gonna sort yourself out?"

"Hmm?" The question startles him.

She points to his chest. "Your heart. You're gonna be all right. Yeah?"

He scratches at the back of his neck, trying to fight the flush that wants to make its way over his face at her words. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll - there's, you know. An operation. In the near future. Once all this is sorted, the trial, and everything with Claire and Ashworth."

Miller frowns. "Always an excuse, you, eh?"

"What?"

"You can't keep putting it off."

"I'm not!" he insists. "Besides, it's the NHS, it's their waiting list you wanna have a go at. Not me."

"Right." She nods.

"You have to admit," he says slowly, clenching his fist nervously, "It does look a bit suspicious."

"What?"

"What they said. The hotel, that night."

"No it doesn't. Jesus, can't a woman and a man be friends anymore? Why do hotel visits have to mean something sordid?"

"Is that what we are, then?"

"What? Sordid?" she snorts.

"No," he replies, and a laugh escapes him. He hastily schools his features again. "No, friends."

"Course." She narrows her eyes. "What, aren't we? Am I still an 'acquaintance?' A colleague?"

"No."

"Well, then."

"Miller…" He trails off, smoothing his palm across his thigh. He feels restless. He feels - he hates it, whatever it is.

"Mm?"

He sighs, and looks away.

"How long is this all gonna go on for, do you reckon?" Miller asks a few moments later.

"How long is a piece of string."

"It's doing my head in. I can't sleep, I can barely eat."

His brow furrows. "Have you eaten today?"

"Yes, Mum," she says with a groan, and counters, "Have you?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Yeah." He pauses. "Miller?"

"What?"

"There's nothing concrete they can pit against you, is there? As far as affairs go."

"Are you asking me if I was a faithful wife?"

"Yeah."

She whacks his arm. "Of course I was!"

"Okay!" He holds his hands up, palms towards her. "Didn't mean to offend."

"For god's sake."

"Sorry."

"I thought I had a good marriage. A happy one. I never knew him at all, did I?"

"I'm sorry."

She sniffs, and shrugs a shoulder. "Not your fault." Biting into her bottom lip for a moment, Miller looks like she's about to impart a secret to him but is hesitating.

"Tell me," he says softly.

Her mouth twists and he has a horrible prediction that's she's about to cry. She holds it together though, looking at him steadily with wet eyes as she whispers, "I had a one-night stand the other day."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"When I was with Claire, we went out and we got drunk and then - there were these blokes, eyeing us up. Oi, no need to look so surprised!"

"I'm not!"

"Anyway, Claire reckoned it would make me feel better. It didn't. It was terrible." She sniffs. "I don't know why I'm telling you this - "

"Hey," he interrupts, and his hand lands gently on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I don't mind. Talk away."

"It's just. I feel like I should move on. I _want_ to move on, be over all this - this shit. But that bloke, he was just, he was a stranger. And I just felt so numb, after." Her bottom lip wobbles and his hand strokes down her arm, covering where hers is clenching tightly into the fabric of her jacket. "I've never done that before. Not that there's anything wrong with it, I just haven't…it's just not me."

"I understand."

She smiles at him sadly. "You ever done anything like that?"

"Nope. Not my sort of thing, either. Come on, you know me, Ellie. I can barely converse with people I've known for months." He squeezes her hand and she laughs. He smiles, a smile that matches hers, full of rueful self-deprecation.

"What about after you and your wife broke up?"

"No." He shrugs. "It just became something that didn't have a place in my life anymore. Plus, there's this old thing." He taps his chest, over his heart.

"Ah. Yeah," she laughs again, quietly but _there_, and it makes his lips twitch again. "I suppose there's always a worry that you'd, you know. Croak it."

He winces then chuckles. "Thanks for that, Miller."

"Sorry," she replies, but it's more of a giggle than an actual apology. He looks down and realises his hand is still covering hers, so he lifts it and folds his hands together in his lap.

"Not only that, though," he says quietly. "The heart thing. It's also a case of - I don't think I could do all that again."

"Have it broken, you mean?" she asks, and he nods. "Yeah. Know the feeling."

"My wife had an affair," he tells her. "You don't look surprised."

"Figured it was something like that," she says. "And, well. To be honest, I can't imagine you with a wife."

"Cheers."

"No, I just mean…"

"I know." He tugs on his ear. "I probably wasn't the best husband."

"Not your fault, though. The affair, I mean."

He shrugs.

"Blimey, why are people so shitty?" she says, laughing wetly and leaning back against the sofa.

"Ah, now there's a conundrum."

She sighs. "Look at us. Former detectives, single, both with an ex who's ruined our lives…"

"To be fair, I think your ex trumps mine in that department."

"Right. Yeah, being a murderer will do that."

"Indeed." He pauses. "We have another thing in common."

"Oh?"

"I rarely see my daughter."

"Oh," she repeats, softly this time. She doesn't need to say anything else.

He glances at the clock on the wall. "It's gone midnight, Miller. I'd say you could stay here, but I wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea."

She rolls her eyes and stands up. "Yeah, perish that thought."

He stands too, and picks up her jacket. Before he can do something so silly as help her put it on, she takes it from him, folding it over her arm.

"Thanks for letting me in for a chat," she says, and he has a distinct feeling she means more than just physically letting her into his home. House. Ramshackle hut.

"No problem," he mumbles, scratching his chest awkwardly. Her gaze drops to his hand, and he has to clench his jaw to stop himself remarking upon that fact.

She meets his eyes again. "It _is_ ridiculous, right?"

He knows what she means. And it is, a bit. Except -

"Yeah. Ridiculous," he replies.

Miller nods, and moves past him, towards the door. "Night, Hardy."

"Goodnight, Miller. Text me when you get in, so I know - "

She gives him a funny look. He knows why; they aren't exactly the sort of people who text each other.

"It's late," he defends, and fortunately, she nods her agreement.

He watches her let herself out, and that dodgy heart of his speeds up a little bit when she turns to look at him over her shoulder, through the glass, as she walks away.

He valiantly tries to convince himself that it's because her arrival tonight meant that he'd forgotten to take one of his prescribed pills.

Grumbling to himself, he makes his way to his bathroom, wondering why the hell it is that the woman whose life is crumbling apart even more than his own feels like the only one who can help him stitch his back together.


End file.
